SPINDRIFT 

MILTON  UAISON 


"Man,  whose  young  passion  sets 
the  spindrift  flying  ..." 

MASEFIELD. 


Engraved  by  John  Sla 


PORTRAIT   OF   A   SAILOR 

What  is  the  saving  grace  that  made  him  loved, 
Written  about,  and  praised  where'er  he  roved? 
Truly,  I  do  not  know,  but  seeing  there, 

His  figure  by  the  rail,  his  eyes  to  sea, 
His  red  face  crinkled,  and  wind  in  his  hair, 

I  do  not  dare  deny  his  majesty. 


S  PI  N  D  RIFT 


BY 


MILTON   RAISON 


WITH    AN    INTRODUCTION    BY 

WILLIAM  McFEE 

AND   A    FRONTISPIECE    BY 

JOHN  SLOAN 


NEW   ^SSr  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,   1922, 
BY  GEORGE   H.   DORAN   COMPANY. 


SPINDRIFT.  I 

PRINTED   IN   THE   UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


f* 


TO  VIOLE 

^  r 
I  have  the  simple  need  of  you, 

I  have  of  meat  and  drink, 
Of  freedom,  beauty,  faith  and  friends, 

And  lovely  thoughts  to  think. 

But  you  are  everything  I  need, 

Faith  and  food  and  friend, 
And  you  are  fused  with  beauty 

In  my  thoughts  without  an  end. 

I  need  of  nothing  on  this  earth, 

Yet  I  go  off  to  sea, 
To  seek  the  freedom  that  you  steal 

In  dominating  me. 


INTRODUCTION 

BY  WILLIAM  McFEE 

If  memory,  backed  by  the  conven 
tional  criticism  of  twenty,  thirty,  and 
even  forty  years  ago,  be  accepted  as  a 
guide,  the  invariable  defect  of  youthful 
poetry  was  a  lack  of  simplicity  and  a 
sense  of  direction.  One  had  a  tendency, 
it  is  remorsefully  remembered  now,  to 
write  of  things  of  which  one  knew  noth 
ing  and  in  a  style  entirely  foreign  to  the 
experience  and  temper  of  one's  age. 
This,  no  doubt,  was  to  be  expected  of 
young  people  who  lived,  for  the  most 
part,  very  secluded  lives  without  tele 
phones,  automobiles,  magazines,  or  cine 
mas  ;  their  actual  knowledge  was  micro 
scopic,  and  the  demesnes  of  their  fancy 
untraversed  by  the  highroads  of  modern 
learning.  It  was  the  first  duty  of  every 
guide,  philosopher  and  friend  of  youth 
to  warn  them  against  writing  of  distant 
places  and  far-off  romantic  periods,  in 
imitation  of  Scott  and  his  school.  Write 
of  what  you  know,  was  the  ceaseless  cry 


of  the  sage  seniors  to  dreamy-eyed  youth, 
who  of  course  knew  nothing  and  so 
could  not  profit  by  this  valuable  advice, 
but  went  on  dreaming  and  constructing 
impossible  romances  (like  Shelley's 
"Zastrozzi")  until  in  most  cases  they 
fell  in  love  and  discovered  things  for 
themselves. 

Today,  youth  knowing  everything, 
the  problem  is  not  the  same.  For  them 
there  is  no  longer  any  danger  of  loiter 
ing  palely  in  the  anterooms  of  romance. 
They  do  not  need  recalling  from  fan 
tastic  journeys  into  preposterous  prin 
cipalities,  nor  are  they  discovered  ap 
ing  Keats,  with  his  "magic  casements, 
opening  on  the  foam  of  perilous  seas  in 
faery  lands  forlorn."  There  is  even  a 
doubt  in  the  present  writer's  mind 
whether  they  ever  fall  in  love  any  more 
(in  the  old  foolish,  dreamy,  meal-miss 
ing  sense) .... 

And  herein  lies  the  interest  in  modern 
verse.  It  may  not  tell  us  very  much 
about  art  or  life,  but  it  ought  to  tell  us 
something  about  the  young  people  who 
write  it.  Whether  they  know  it  or  not, 
they  are  living  in  a  very  remarkable 
age.  How  remarkable,  only  those  of  us 
know  who  can  remember  the  'eighties 


XI 

and  the  'nineties.  And  while  their  reac 
tions  to  this  age  are  not  necessarily  en 
tirely  embodied  in  verse,  there  is  suffi 
cient  demand  and  encouragement  for 
poets  nowadays  to  accept  their  efforts  as 
authentic  manifestations  of  the  Time 
Spirit. 

For  this  reason  it  is  to  be  regretted 
that  so  few  of  these  young  people  reveal 
any  appreciation  of  the  technical  prob 
lems  involved  in  poetry.  So  far  from 
resembling  a  company  of  polite  young 
romantics  gathering  posies  in  a  beauti 
ful  garden,  they  convey,  in  their  modern 
vers  libre,  an  unhappy  impression  of  a 
gang  of  hoodlums  smashing  and  uproot 
ing,  and  sinking  their  heavy  heels  in  the 
choicest  flower  beds  as  they  bawl  to  one 
another  their  favorite  aesthetic  anthem: 
that  they  know  not  where  they  are  going, 
but  they  are  on  their  way.  If  one  does 
not  know  that,  there  is  nothing  to  be 
gained  by  making  a  virtue  of  it.  The 
sleep  walker  and  the  anarchist  have  the 
same  justification  for  their  behavior. 
One  has  only  to  imagine  the  votaries  of 
any  other  art  proclaiming  the  same  im 
pudent  doctrine,  to  perceive  the  unwis 
dom  of  it.  It  is  highly  desirable  in  all 
the  arts  to  know  where  one  is  going,  and 


Xll 

it  may  even  prove  a  sound  policy  to  halt 
a  while  and  find  out. 

In  the  verses  now  under  consideration 
the  young  author  has  advanced  no  such 
foolish  contentions.  If  many  modern 
poets  remind  one  of  a  noisy  syncopating 
orchestra,  these  brief  pieces  are  like  the 
clear  melodious  whistle  of  a  boy  on  a 
fine  summer  evening.  It  was  early  dis 
covered  by  the  present  writer  that  one 
of  the  most  difficult  things  to  accomplish 
in  any  art  is  outline.  And  here  you  have 
it.  There  is  a  Latin  sharpness  of  men 
tality  manifested  in  these  clearly,  sar 
donically  etched  portraits  of  a  ship's 
crew.  The  whimsical  humor  revealed 
in  final  lines  is  a  portent,  in  the  present 
writer's  opinion,  of  a  talent  which  will 
probably  come  to  maturity  in  a  very  dif 
ferent  field.  Indeed  it  may  be — though 
it  is  too  early  to  dogmatize — that  these 
poems  are  but  the  early  efflorescence  of 
a  gift  for  vigorous  prose  narrative.  This 
is  scarcely  the  place  to  go  into  the  intri 
cate  and  interesting  question  of  literary 
origins.  Some  men  begin,  as  did  Shel 
ley,  by  designing  enormous  and  macabre 
romances  and  find  their  true  metier  in 
great  verse.  Some,  like  Thomas  Hardy, 
achieve  fame  as  novelists  and  develop 


Xlll 

late  as  minor  poets.  Others,  and  these 
form  the  main  body  of  literature,  sing 
in  lusty  minor  verse  for  a  year  or  two, 
and  then,  ceasing  as  suddenly  as  though 
their  poetic  voices  had  broken,  use  the 
prose  form  for  the  rest  of  their  lives. 

The  opinions  of  men  diverge  sharply 
upon  the  question  of  the  best  environ 
ment  for  the  development  of  a  man  of 
letters.  Milton  Raison  has  settled  for 
himself,  with  engaging  promptitude, 
that  a  seafaring  career  provides  the  in 
spiration  he  craves.  The  influence  of 
Masefield  is  strong  upon  him,  and  some 
of  his  verses  are  plainly  derivative.  As 
already  hinted,  it  is  too  early  to  say  defi 
nitely  how  this  plan  will  succeed.  In 
his  diary,  kept  while  on  a  voyage  to 
South  America,  a  document  remarkable 
for  its  descriptive  power  and  a  certain 
crude  and  virginal  candor,  one  may  dis 
cover  an  embryo  novelist  struggling 
with  the  inevitable  limitations  of  youth. 
But  in  his  simple  and  naive  poems, 
whether  they  give  us  some  bizarre  and 
catastrophic  picture  of  seamen,  or  depict 
the  charming  emotions  of  a  sensitive 
adolescence,  there  is  a  passion  for  ex 
periment  and  humility  of  intellect  which 


XIV 

promises  well  enough  for  a  young  man 
in  his  teens. 

The  story  is  told  of  one  of  our  greatest 
living  writers,  that  at  the  height  of  his 
spectacular  career,  his  father  could  not 
be  induced  to  voice  the  almost  universal 
praise.  When  pressed,  the  latter  ad 
mitted  laconically  that  his  son's  achieve 
ment  was  "creditable."  From  this  po 
sition  of  extreme  moderation  he  refused 
to  be  moved. 

Here  is  a  very  valuable  anecdote. 
There  is  too  much  meaningless  and  un- 
authenticated  enthusiasm  in  evidence 
these  days.  It  is  highly  desirable  that 
the  young  be  protected  from  dangerous 
adulation.  Let  it  stand,  therefore,  in 
this  case  as  "creditable,"  and  neither 
poet  nor  panegyrist  will  have  occasion 
in  future  years  to  regret  his  modest 
claims. 

W.  McF. 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

For  permission  to  reprint  some  of  these  verses 
thanks  are  due  Munsey's  Magazine,  The  Eve 
ning  Post,  The  Century,  Scribner's,  Vanity 
Fair,  The  New  York  Call  and  The  Bookman 
and  to  John  Sloan  for  the  use  of  his  illustration 
for  Portrait  of  a  Sailor. 


CONTENTS 

SEA  SKETCHES 

PORTRAIT  OF  A  SAILOR,    21 
THE  LOOKOUT,    23 
THE  APPRENTICE,    24 
THE  MESSBOY,    2$ 
THE   CAPTAIN,    26 
THE  OLD  WIPER,    2J 
THE  CHEATED  MATE,    28 
THE  CHIEF  STEWARD,    2Q 

THE  CREW'S  COOK,  30 
THE  SHIP'S  BUTCHER,  31 
THE  CHIEF  ENGINEER,  32 

THE  NIGHT  WATCHMAN,  34 

BAFFLED,    35 

THE   BEACHCOMBER,   36 

THE  SAILOR  SINGS,    37 

AT  SEA,    38 

THE  HOLD,    39 

SEARCH,    41 

SEA  MOOD,  42 

THE  MOON  AND  THE  SHIP,  44 

THE  GOBLET  OF  LETHE,  46 

VALPARAISO,    47 

CERRO  AZUL,  PERU   (FROM  THE  SHI?),    48 


xvii 


xvm 

THE  LAST  NIGHT,    50 
FOG,    51 
VISION,    52 

PEOPLE,  PLACES  AND  THINGS 

H.   M.   L.,  55 
BROTHERS,    57 
TO  A  FRIEND,    58 
THE  SILENT,    5Q 
THE   CABIN    PASSES,    6l 
SONGS,    63 
TWILIGHT  MOOD,  66 
SPRING  STEPS,    67 
RHYTHMS,    68 

MY  LADY'S  LIPS,  70 

PEERS,    71 

THE  DEATH  OF  A  MISTRESS.  72 

CLAIR  DE  LUNE,  73 

THE  MAD  BARBER,  74 

BLACK  SHEEP,  75 

TO  VIOLE  IN  ANSWER  TO  HER  SONNET,  76 

"THESE  BE  THE  LOVELY  THINGS",  77 

RONDEAU,  78 

TO  SOPHIE,  79 

MY  LADY  LOVE,  80 

FEAR,  8l 

TO  MY  LADY,  82 

PEACE,  83 


XIX 

EARLY  VERSES 

I 

REVERIES  OF  A  VIOLEAN  NIGHT,    87 

FORGET-ME-NOT,    9<D 

SONNETS  TO  A  YOUNG  LOVE,   9! 

SYLVIA,    97 

AGE,    98 

PROTEST,    99 

SPRING   LUXURY,    1OO 

II 

Perversities 

SNEERS,     1O3 

LUNI-COMIC,     1O4 

PLAY-THOUGHTS,     1OJ 

AN  ATTEMPT  AT  THE  MASEFIELDIAN 

MANNER,     1O8 
LOSS,     112 
SOMEONE,     113 
QUERY,    114 
WISE,    115 


SEA  SKETCHES 


PORTRAIT  OF  A  SAILOR 

HUMPED  o'er  the  rail,  eyes  on  the 
sea  he  stands, 
A  filling  figure  of  a  man  whose 

hands 
Have  never  touched  an  object  light 

enough 

To  do  it  reverence; — the  sacred  stuff 
Of  love,  forbearance,  faith,  he  never 

knew. 

And  he  is  cruel  in  his  sportive  way, 
And   cunning   in   his   mischief-making 

too; 

He  has  no  further  use  of  any  day, 
But  take  it  as  it  comes  and  live  it 

through. 

Grumbling  at  sea,  carousing  in  a  port, 
And  so  again — that  circle's  his  retort 
To  all  the  beauty  molded  out  for  him — 
Strange  his  keen  eyes  should  be  so  sadly 

dim! 


22 

What  is  the  saving  grace  that  made  him 

loved, 
Written  about  and  praised  where'er  he 

roved? 

Truly  I  do  not  know,  but  seeing  there, 
His  figure  by  the  rail,  his  eyes  to  sea, 
His  red  face  crinkled,  and  the  wind  in 

his  hair — 
I  do  not  dare  deny  his  majesty. 


23 

THE  LOOKOUT 

HE'D  been  to  sea  for  thirty  years, 
And  he  was  tired  of  tasting 

spray, 

Carried  by  every  wind  that  veers 
Through  night  and  day. 

This  stuff  that  salted  up  his  lips, 
And  even  the  marrow  in  his  bone, 

Had  wet  the  decks  of  all  the  ships 
He'd  ever  known. 

It  quenched  the  sun,  and  threatened 
stars, 

And  filled  his  world  with  steady  din. 
What  grander  grave  for  weary  tars? — 

So  he  slipped  in. 


24 
THE  APPRENTICE 

SOME  men  can  find  a  magic  in  the 
sea, 

And  he  is  one,  I  know  it  by  his 
eyes, 

Sweet  with  beauty  as  they  turn  to  me 
From  gazing  ocean-wise. 

Yet  he's  the  sort  of  man  the  sea  will 

cheat, 
And  for  his  love  and  trust  will  bite  his 

hand, 

By  mustering  her  vice  for  his  defeat — 
But  he'll  not  understand. 


25 

THE  MESSBOY 

E  had  contempt  that  was  divine, 
For  every  sailor  that  he  fed, 
For  while  they  talked  of  girls 
and  wine — 
He  read. 


H 


For  while  they  lived  the  pain  and  strife 
Their  dull  imagination  brooks, 

He  could  appreciate  their  life 
In  books. 

He  washed  the  dishes,  made  the  bed, 
And  did  their  errands  with  fair  grace, 

Nor  could  their  insults  on  his  head 
Erase 

That  fine,  immobile  pride  of  his 

Which  brushed  against  their  baser 
sod, 

And  was  as  different  as  a  kiss 
Of  God. 


26 

THE  CAPTAIN 

THE  captain  was  a  silent  man 
Who    never    said    an    extra 
word, 

He'd  watch  the  sea  for  quite  a  span, 
Nor  let  himself  be  heard. 

It's  queer  that  such  a  man  as  he 

Should    find   himself   so   strange    a 
friend, 

And  be  companion  of  a  sea 
That  talked  without  an  end. 


2? 

THE  OLD  WIPER 

HE  doesn't  know  a  thing  about 
The  engines  that  he  wipes  and 
cleans ; 

The  ships  he'd  been  on  sailed  without 
Machines. 

For  all,  he  hopes  they'll  never  make 
Until  he  leaves  the  human  race, 

Some  sort  of  engine  that  would  take 
His  place. 


28 

THE  CHEATED  MATE 

THE  captain  was  so  deadly  drunk, 
He  wanted  to  caress  a  wave, 
And  so  they  strapped  him  to  his 
bunk, 
And  left  him  there  to  rave. 

The  mate  who  wished  the  captain  died, 
So  his  command  the  ship  would  be, 

Thought  that  the  captain  if  untied 
Would  jump  into  the  sea. 

He  loosed  the  cords  that  held  him  down, 
The  captain  though,  was  crazy-strong, 

And  as  he  climbed  the  rail  to  drown, — 
He  took  the  mate  along. 


29 
THE  CHIEF  STEWARD 

THE  seamen  hated  him  because 
He  sent  back  aft  the  rotten 
meat, 

And  all  the  half-cooked  food  there  was 
The  passengers  refused  to  eat. 

So  since  he  wasn't  fit  to  live, 

And  anxious  for  the  common  weal — 

They  threw  him  overboard  to  give 
The  sharks  at  least,  a  decent  meal. 


30 
THE  CREW'S  COOK 

THE   smallest   man    among    the 
crew, 

And  yet  the  one  most  looked 
up  to. 

We  help  him  coal  his  fire  and  peel 
The  vegetables  for  every  meal; 
We  listen  to  his  tastes,  nor  voice 
Among  us  a  dissenting  choice. 

We  hate  his  foe,  and  love  his  friend, 
And  lock  his  secrets  in  our  hearts, 
Praying  Davy  Jones  to  lend 
Us  solemness  to  play  our  parts. 

There  is  a  reason  for  our  fear: 
With  heat,  or  rage  or  too  much  beer, 
And  carving  knives  so  close  at  hand — 
Cooks  have  been  known  to  run  amuck; 
And  those  they  didn't  like  would  stand 
A  likely  chance  of  being  stuck. 

The  smallest  man  among  the  crew 
Is  thus,  the  one  most  looked  up  to. 


31 
THE  SHIPS  BUTCHER 

HE  is  preposterous,  yet  he  is  sym 
bolic 
This  thin,  bald  figure  strutting 
in  his  striped 
Apron   and  jacket   that  he  boasts   "I 

swiped"; 
And  his  appearance  turns  the  crew  to 

frolic; 
"Just  look  at  him,  the  bloody  fool  who 

wears 

That  piebald  rig-out  to  his  bloody  work, 
Bleeding  the  pretty  colors  when  his  dirk 
Cuts    through    the    rotten   meat — put 
ting  on  airs!" 

But  through  this  mocking,  he  maintains 
a  face 

Defiant  with  smiles;  at  each  insult  he 
bows 

With  most  elaborate  courtesy  and  grace. 

And  though  this  clash  of  mockery  al 
lows 

A  mutual  exchange  of  "Go  to  hell!", 

The  more  effective  is  not  hard  to  tell. 


32 
THE  CHIEF  ENGINEER 

HE  was  aristocratic,  tall  and  grim, 
And    had    a    distant,    uncon 
cerned  air 

That  made  us  think  he  really  didn't  care 
About  the  things  life  brought  in  touch 
with  him. 

We  never  saw  him  read,  nor  write  nor 

talk, 

Nor  listen,  for  that  matter,  all  he  did 
Was  lend  his  person  as  a  silent  bid 
Unto    our    company.      At    times   he'd 

walk 

Timidly  on  the  deck,  deep  in  a  thought 
Apparently,    that   made    his    footsteps 

halt, 

As  though  his  very  motion  were  at  fault, 
And  out  of  tune  with  one  so  calmly 

wrought. 

He  didn't  seem  to  care  about  the  ship, 
And  for  the  sea — he  never  watched  it 

twice ; 

Nor  was  he  bothered  by  a  single  vice, 
Or  worry  that  would  make  him  bite  his 

lip. 


33 

Such  a  person  set  our  wonder  free, 
And  we  were  undecided  whether  he 
Was  merely  stupid,  or  a  mystery. 


34 
THE  NIGHT  WATCHMAN 

WHAT  does  he  know  of  the  sea, 
this  ancient  man 
Who  spent  a  scattered  life 
time  on  her  ships'? 
Who  trod  her  ports,  where  fellowship 

began 

On  hearty  footing  mid  her  sons,  on  sips 
Of  liquor,  and  her  daughter's  painted 

lips. 
What  does  he  know  of  the  sea,  and  the 

storms  that  lashed 
Their  course  of  fury  with  a  million 

whips, 
And  the  waves  that  slid  beneath  the  rays 

and  dashed 
Themselves  to  spume  against  the  wind 

and  hull? 

Surely  he  must  know  unf  orgotten  scenes 
When  painter-skies  mixed  color  in  the 

sea. 
But  when  I  see  him  seated,  bent  and 

dull, 
Small,  gleaming  eyes  upon  the  shoes  he 

cleans 
For  passengers- — it  stays  a  mystery! 


35 
BAFFLED 

THERE  was  a  dreamer  and  he 
knew  no  jest, 
His  mind  was  dull  to  banter 
ing  and  quips — 
But  those  black  eyes  of  his  that  flashed 

like  whips, 

Curled  out  to  beauty;  he  was  beauty- 
blest, 

And  his  two  feet  could  only  find  a  rest 
When  they  had  brought  him  out  to  watch 

the  ships, 

To  lick  the  salt  that  clustered  on  his  lips, 
And  breathe  the  ocean-wind  with  newer 
zest. 

So  he  went  off  to  sea  to  flee  the  laughter 
On  land,  and  soon  on  ship  there  spread 

a  rumor, 

"The  new  kid  hasn't  got  a  sense  of  hu 
mor, 

Let's  fool  with  him" — And  teasing  fol 
lowed  after; 

And  so  the  dreamer,  baffled  at  his  duty, 
Jumped  overboard  in  search  of  mirthless 
beauty. 


36 
THE  BEACHCOMBER 

HE  fell  upon  us  as  we  came  ashore 
To  spend  our  money  with  the 
feel  of  land 
Again   beneath  our   feet — and   almost 

tore 
Our  clothes  in  his  delight  to  clasp  a 

hand. 
We  were  the  first  white  men  upon  the 

sand 
Of  this  damned  beach,  he  purpled  as  he 

swore, 
He'd  seen  for  half  a  year; — then  !he 

grew  bland, 
Suggested  drinks,  and  steered  us  to  the 

door 
Of  some  dive  where  the  finest  whiskey 

sold, 

He  said,  and  where  the  fun  at  night  be 
gan. 
It  gave  him  keenest  pleasure  to  grow 

bold 
On  drinks — and  yell  to  all  he  was  a 

man; 
Meanwhile    the    barkeep    smiled    and 

thought  of  when 
He'd  have  to  throw  him  out  of  doors 

again. 


37 
THE  SAILOR  SINGS 

WHAT  do  I  want  of  a  home  and 
love, 
When  I  have  the  sea,  and  the 
sky  above, 
And  a  smiling  woman  wherever  I  rove? 

What  do  I  want  of  faith  and  peace, 
Or  the  mellow  to  age  as  the  years  in 
crease, 

When  I'd  rather  my  youth  would  sud 
denly  cease? 

For  what  is  life  when  youth  is  over, 
And  what  is  love  to  a  faithless  lover, 
And  death  to  a  careless  rover? 


38 
AT  SEA 

THIS  is  the  scene,   laid  out  for 
splendid  things: 
The  night  is  tropical,  the  moon 
is  veiled, 
A  soft  wind  fans  our  ship  on,  and  we 

sailed 
Through  velvet  seas;  a  languid  billow 

swings 
Against  our  hull,  and  trickles  back  to 

sea, 

The  stars  shake  like  a  wind-tossed  can 
opy. 

The  seamen  line  the  hold  where  I  sit  too, 
Expecting  some  adventure  I  could  tell, 
Some  deviltry  let  loose  among  the  crew, 
The  memory  of  which  would  serve  me 
well.  .  .  . 

But  passively  we  listen  to  a  bore 
Who  prattles  on  the  merits  of  a  whore. 


39 
|  THE  HOLD 

THERE  is  a  treasure  trove  aboard 
all  ships, 
That    gathers    beauty    to    its 
ample  fold, 
Like  a  huge  goddess  with  kind,  smiling 

lips: 
We  sailors  know  it  as  the  after-hold. 

The  sun  spreads  on  its  top  a  cloth  of 

gold, 
And  there,  the  spare  hours  in  the  day 

we  spend ; 
We  play  our  games,  and  have  our  fun, 

and  lend 
A  mortal  aspect  to  the  silent  hold. 

At  night  we  gather  on  its  boards  and 

sing, 
And  sprawl  around  and  talk  of  life 

and  death; 
And  what  a  wealth  of  narrative  we 

bring ! 

What  song  rides  forth  on  agitated 
breath ! 


40 

And  there  are  wondrous  cargoes  in  its 

deeps, 
From  silks  and  furs  to  simple  ballast 

sand. 

The  air  of  musty  memories  it  keeps 
Is  opened  to  us  every  port  we  land. 

Somehow  I  feel,  when  we're  asleep  be 
low, 
The  stars  come  down  to  dance  upon 

the  hold, 
A  ghastly  moon  makes  whiter  than  the 

snow 
That  covers  it  like  fur  when  it  is  cold. 

I  like  to  lie  upon  the  hold  and  watch 
The  lovely  squirmings  of  a  restless 

sky — 

And  see  a  star  go  out,  just  like  a  match, 
And  wish  my  soul  went  that  way  when 
I  die. 


SEARCH 

I  KNOW  there  is  a  harbor  in  the  dusk 
Where  beauty  is  inseparable  from 
all 

The  seemly  aspect;  in  the  gentle  fall 
Of  evening  there's  a  strangely  pungent 

musk 

From  faery  creatures  quartered  in  a  stall 
Behind  the  battered  quays  that  mourn 
fully 
Lie  mouldering  in  the  foothills  of  the 

sea. 
Llamas,  gnus  and  lions,  and  elephants 

tall, 
These  phantom  beasts  of  my  desire  will 

be, 

Subjects  of  the  most  ornately  wild 
Equestrian  visions  that  ever  came  to  me, 
To  grace  the  fancy  of  a  dreamer-child. 
Yet  everywhere  I  come,  I  cannot  find 
This  harbor  that  I  somehow  leave  be 
hind. 


42 

SEA  MOOD 

I  SHUT  my  eyes,  and  I  can  see 
How  once  we  all  sat  on  the  hold, 
And  sang  the  songs  that  memory 
Had  not  permitted  to  grow  old. 

We  sang  in  seven  different  tongues, 
And   each   tongue   had   its   separate 

tears, 
While  some  would  sigh  to  clear  their 

lungs 
Breaking  the  harmony  for  our  ears. 

And  when  we'd  stop,  some  Swede  or 
Dane 

Would  swing  into  his  own  folk  song, 
Then  clear  his  throat,  and  tell  again 

Why  he  left  home,  and  just  how  long. 

Or  looking  at  the  sea,  with  eyes 

That  saw  none  of  the   swells   and 
spray, 

The  scullery-kid  who  grew  man-size 
Amid  us,  told  about  the  day 


43 

He  ran  away  from  home  to  find 

What  greater  things  the  earth  con 
tains 

Than  cities  filling  throats  with  grind, 
Slit   through    with   narrow,   crooked 
lanes. 

Then  as  the  hours  grew  late,  we'd  take 
Our  last  look  at  the  milky  way 

That  sprawled  across  the  sky,  to  break 
The  blue,  to  something  one  could 
pray, 

So  great  it  seemed,  and  we  would  gaze 
A  length  upon  that  holy  sight, 

Then  go  below  in  separate  ways 
To  clinch  the  silence  of  the  night. 


44 
THE  MOON  AND  THE  SHIP 

THE  night  was  a  woman  with  stars 
in  her  hair, 
And  the  crescent  moon  was  her 
mouth; 
While  her  breath  was  the  wind  from 

the  south, 
That  came  from  those  smiling  lips  so 

rare, 

So  brazen,  so  arch,  as  to  cause  one  de 
spair 

Of  ever  appeasing  his  drouth 
For    such   beauty    that    followed    one 
everywhere. 

The  ship  was  a  giant  with  curly,  white 

hair 

That  gnarled  on  his  chin  and  cheek, 
And  his  breath  had  a  salty  reek. 
Limbs  now  in  the  water,  and  now  in  the 

air, 
He  swam  for  the  joy  of  it,  not  caring 

where, 

Nor  anything  did  he  seek — 
But  followed  the  wind  with  a  snort  and 

a  flare. 


45 

The  night  shook  her  hair  and  the  stars 

fell  out, 

(You  could  dip  them  up  with  a  spoon) 
And  to  make  the  round,  red  moon, 
She  puckered  her  lips  in  a  charming 

pout.  .  .  . 
Then  the  giant  looked  up  with  a  startled 

shout, 

And  he  turned  to  the  maddest  loon ! 
He  put  all  the  frolicking  waves  to  rout 
By  his  rushing,  careening  and  pitching 

about, 
To  kiss  that  mouth  .  .  .  nearer  .  .  . 

soon!  .  .  . 
Like  a  seagull  that  flies  .  .  .  and  flies 

.  .  .  and  flies  .  .  . 
It  had  scenes  with  clouds  before   his 

eyes — 
Brushed  back  the  stars  from  its  velvet 

way, 
And  disappeared  at  the  break  of  day. 

Lo !  I  found  myself  standing  by  the  rail, 
And  the  ship  was  beneath  me  as  hearty 

and  hale 

As  ever  it  seemed, 
So  I  knew  I  had  dreamed. 


46 
THE  GOBLET  OF  LETHE 

THE  sea  is  a  huge  philtre  where  is 
blended 
Poisons,    compounded   out  of 
vice,  extended 

To  all  the  men  for  whom  the  world  has 
ended. 

Yet  far  from  being  noxious,  there  is 

beauty 
In  this  dread  mixture,  beauty  beyond 

reason, 

Subtle,  as  the  coming  of  a  season, 
Stately,  as  the  dying  of  a  day, 
That  passes  o'er  the  waters,  paying  duty 
For  all  the  splendor  that  it  leads  away. 

There  is  the  tang  the  smell  cannot  resist, 
And  to  the  eye,  the  shades  look  exquisite, 
The  senses  tingle  to  a  dewy  mist 
That  rises  from  some  under-water  moor 
ing, 

And  sets  one  wondering  what  spell  is  it 
That  makes  the  proffered  philtre  so  al 
luring  .  .  . 
To  find  that  those  who  drink  of  this 

love-potion, 
Forever  seek  the  bosom  of  the  ocean. 


47 
VALPARAISO 

rTT^HE  mountains  are  like  crouching 

camels 
•*•        And  you,  a  toy  between  their 

feet, 

And  though  your  insolence  untrammels 
The  anxious  confines  of  the  street — 
You  have  no  other  way  to  creep, 
So  on  the  hills  your  climbing' s  done. 
You'll  never  find  the  sea  asleep 
Like  crouching  camels  in  the  sun. 


CERRO  AZUL,  PERU 

(From  the  Ship) 

ONE  would  dismiss  you  with  a 
shrug  and  smile, 
Quite  scornful  of  your  specu 
lative  worth — 

Call  you  a  God-forsaken  bit  of  earth, 
But  I  would  pause  to  watch  you  for  a 
while. 

What  do  I  see?     The  ocean's  fingers 

clutch 
Frantically  at  your  cliffs,  hand  after 

hand, — 

But  grasping  only  bits  of  trickling  sand 
That  must  feel  puny  to  so  grand  a  touch. 

Your  mountains  suck  the  color  from  the 

sky 

At  twilight,  when  the  ocean  loses  hers — 
And  merge  majestically  amid  the  blurs 
Of  clouds  and  mists  that  swirl  before 

the  eye. 

The  sun  is  lost  at  sea,  after  it  had 
Foundered  on  the  horizon  for  a  space; 
It  sank  with  such  a  well-attended  grace, 
I  knew  clean  wonder  like  a  little  lad. 


49 

And  where  it  sank,  a  sword  of  light  ap 
peared, 

That  floated  on  the  water  as  we  rolled, 

The  virgin  moon  then  slipped  her  veil 
and  cold 

White  stars  into  the  shaded  heavens 
steered. 

There  is  sufficient  beauty  here  for  me, 
To  keep  me  humble  an  eternity. 


50 
THE  LAST  NIGHT 

I  SHALL  be  lonesome  for  you,  ships 
and  sea, 
And  many  are  the  nights  I'll  lie 

awake, 
Straining  my  ears  to  hear  the  water 

break 
Against  the  hull  that  kept  it  back  from 

me. 
Watching  the  ship's  nose  split  the  wind 

that  bled 

Fine  spray  on  deck  and  me  and  every 
thing; 
The  daring  moon  dance  up  the  sky  and 

shed 

Her  many-colored  veils  in  clambering; 
The  nude  sun,  shorn  of  rays  dive  in  a 

wave; 
The  burly  clouds  swinging  their  hordes 

to  storm — 
These  things  I  may  not  see  before  the 

grave 

Again,  but  certain  I  shall  ever  warm 
To  their  remembered  beauty — yet  not 

above 
The  beauty  of  the  one  who  waits  my 

love. 


FOG 

FLOWING  in  its  sombre,  sluggish 
beauty, 
The  river  lay  under  the  spell  of 

the  mist; 
Squatting    barges,    squarely-built    and 

sooty, 

Lost  their  angles  in  the  amethyst 
That  veiled  the  ancient,  long-enchanted 

sun. 
Bridges  spanned  the  stream  like  things 

untrue, 

Or  spiders'  webs  glittering  with  the  dew. 
A  ship  returning  from  its  far-flung  run 
Crept  up  the  river  as  though  it  had  been 

snared; 

Doleful  sirens  sounded  through  the  haze 
As  though  the  fog  had  crept  into  their 

throats, 

Why  does  this  beauty  come  so  unpre 
pared 

To  break  into  the  pattern  of  the  days — 
Forgetting  men,  to  drift  among  the 

boats'? 


52 

VISION 

HAVE  I  forgotten  beauty,  and  the 
pang 

Of    sheer    delight    in    perfect 
visioning? 

Have  I  forgotten  how  the  spirit  sang 

When  shattered  breakers  sprayed  their 
ocean-tang 

To  ease  the  blows  with  which  the  great 
cliffs  rang? 

Have  I  forgotten  how  the  fond  stars 
fling 

Their  naked  children  to  the  faery  ring 

Of  some  dark  pool,  and  watch  them  play 
and  sing 

In  silent  silver  chords  I  too  could  hear? 

Or  smile  to  see  a  starlet  shake  with  fear 

Whenever  winds  disturbed  the  lake's  re 
pose, 

Or  when  in  mocking  mood  they  form  in 
rows, 

And  stare  up  at  their  parents — so  se 
date — 

Then  break  up  laughing  neath  a  ripple's 
weight? 


PEOPLE,  PLACES  AND 
THINGS 


55 
H.  M.  L. 

THERE  is  no  other  man  I  know, 
Resembling  a  schooner  so, — 
Staunch  and  slight  with  grace 
ful  spars 
That  sway  against  the  steady  stars. 

He  has  as  keen  a  scent  for  beauty 
As  the  schooner  has  for  wind, 
And  as  noble  sense  of  duty 
As  a  sailor  who  has  signed 
On  a  ship  he  loves  so  much, 
There  is  a  softness  in  his  touch. 

Like  a  schooner  in  these  things : 

There's  the  sense  of  peace  he  brings, 

Like  the  witching  hour  at  sea 

When  the  tangled  dusk  flies  free; 

Then  a  sweet  security — 

He  would  reluctantly  go  down 

Letting  those  who  loved  him  drown; 

He  would  never  lose  a  mast, 

Or  be  ungraceful  in  his  acts, 

Nor  would  he  hold  you  down  to  facts, 

Nor  your  imagination  fast — 

Like  the  kindly  ships  that  seem 

The  rendezvous  for  truth  and  dream. 


56 

There  is  no  other  man  I  know, 
Resembling  a  schooner  so. 


57 
BROTHERS 

I  NEVER  saw  your  face  before, 
And  probably  will  not  again, 
Yet  in  the  glance,  I  saw  that  more 
Was  given  you  than  other  men. 

I  recognized  your  like  to  me, 

The  troubled  eyes,  the  pallid  skin, 

Yet  more  of  you  I  would  not  see 
Because  we  are  so  much  akin. 


58 
TO  A  FRIEND 

WHAT   will   you   know   of  me 
when  I  am  dead? 
I  do  not  ask  because  I  am  con 
cerned, 

Nor  yet  with  sudden  wisdom  is  that  said 
To  puzzle  you,  who  are  profoundly 

learned ; 

But  just  half-humorously  as  I've  lived, 
And  with  a  crooked  smile  upon  my  lips, 
For  how  this  startling  query  is  received 
And  what  remorse  or  sympathy  it  grips 
In  you,  who've  known  me  through 

these  many  years. 
And  then  you'll  think:  you've  never 

known  my  tears, 

My  thirsts,  my  loves,  my  little  tragedies, 
My  little  colored  days  of  grey  and 

blue- 
All  that  you've  known  of  me  did  but 

appease 
The  calm,  unruffled,  thoughtless  side  of 

you. 


S 


59 
THE  SILENT 


HE  was  as  fragile  as  silence, 
And  her  beauty  was  as  far-reach 
ing. 


Her  wiles  were  profound  as  the  quiet 
That  creeps  on  the  city  at  midnight 

Her  very  presence  was  formless, 
Intangible,  confidence-breeding. 

But  one  felt  all  this  could  be  shattered 
With  a  single  resonant  word. 


6o 
ii 


She,  being  woman,  was  subtle ; 
Speech,  she  claimed  was  futile — 
So  walking  the  longest  while, 
We  did  not  say  a  word 
That  would  provoke  a  smile 
Or  bring  us  quiet  fears. 
She  thought  such  talk  absurd, 
There  was  no  need  to  jest, 
No  need  to  probe  to  tears; 
Silence  between  us  was  best, 
The  pregnant  silence  that  hovers 
In  the  eyes  of  lovers. 
But  I  know,  being  wise, 
If  we  do  not  use  our  breath 
On  talk,  but  just  our  eyes — 
We  will  soon  be  bored  to  death. 

But  she,  being  woman,  was  subtle, 
And  that  was  sufficient  rebuttal. 


61 

THE  CABIN  PASSES 

BEAUTY  and  love  and  tenderness 
and  joy; 
These  things  our  Cabin  knew. 
Why,  it  was  dressed 
With  such  an  eye  for  seemliness,  ca 
ressed 

With  such  solicitude,  decked  for  scope 
In  such  a  lovely  manner !    Heaven  and 

hope, 
And  wistful  f umblings  for  the  truth  and 

right, 

Grew  out  of  day  to  crown  a  perfect 
night. 

This    room   contained    our   souls,    our 

thoughts  that  rose 
In  questioning;  and  how  we  searched 

for  those 
Elusive  things  called  love  and  wealth 

and  art ! 
This  room  that  knew  our  secrets  of  the 

heart, 
That  felt  our  pulse-beats  on  its  airy 

breast, 
That  measured  our  footsteps,  gave  the 

body  rest, 
Contained  all  kindly  things  to  give  us 

ease — 
Passes  now  into  a  long  decease. 


62 

And  we  have  many  memories  to  keep: 
The  magic  of  a  love-consorted  sleep; 
The  mellow  music  clinging  round  its 

walls ; 
The  breathless  waiting  for  the  other's 

knock, 
The  running  to  the  door,  the  opened 

lock, 
The  swift  embrace,  the  happiness,  the 

peace, 
The  love  that  watched  the  jealous  hours 

increase, 
And  begged  the  deep-toned  clock  its 

striking  cease. 

So  beauty  fades,  and  so  the  days  grow 

cold 
The  nights  grow  lonely;  all  we  built, 

destroyed. 
And  we  ephemeral  mortals  who  have 

toyed 
With  such  elusive  things  as  love  and 

art — 
Take  these  passings  woefully  to  heart. 


I 


63 
SONGS 


F  I  could  win  you  back  with  song, 
I'd  write  you  verse  the  whole  day 
long; 


Or  win  your  favor  on  my  knee, 
I'd  stay  so  for  eternity; 


If  daring  acts  would  please  your  eye, 
I  would  devise  brave  ways  to  die; 


And  if  you  wanted  me  your  slave, 
I'd  curl  my  backbone  like  a  wave; 


But  if  you  tired  of  all  these  thing, 
And  all  my  petty  pamperings, 


My  heart  would  flutter  like  a  dove, 
I'd  lay  my  lips  upon  your  glove, 
And  try  to  win  you  back  with  love. 


64 

II 


My  parting  with  you  seemed  to  me  like 

this: 

While  I  was  walking  in  a  sunny  street, 
I  heard  a  tempting  tune,  so  wondrous 

sweet, 

I  straightway  pursed  my  lips  as  if  to  kiss 
And  poured  my  whistle  with  the  music's 

flow. 
And  there  were  times  it  seemed  to  me 

as  though 

I  only,  made  that  music;  what  a  bliss 
To  think  that  I  was  harmonizing  so! 

But  suddenly  the  music  stopped,  and 

left 

With  my  poor,  puny  whistle,  so  undef  t, 
So  purposeless,  I  halted  quite  bereft 
Of  fantasy   and  sound.     And  now  I 

know 

You  were  the  lovely  music  that  I  heard, 
And  my  companionship  with  you,  the 

whistling, 

And  when  we  parted  I  was  like  a  bird 
Who  has  discovered  that  he  cannot  sing, 
And  has   been   doomed  to  be   forever 

dumb, 
With  tragic  eyes  to  watch  the  springtime 

come. 


65 
in 


My  lady's  face  is  like  the  moon, 
Her  laughter  like  the  sun  at  noon; 
Her  hair  is  thick  and  long  and  sleek 
Where  sullen  lights  play  hide  and  seek; 
My  lady's  teeth  are  like  the  spray 
That  scampers  from  a  billow's  way, 
Her  form  is  graceful  as  a  ship's 
That  rides  the  waves  then  stately  dips, 
And  curving  like  a  schooner's  bows, 
Her  lips  smile  neath  a  dainty  nose. 
Her  breasts  as  round  as  melon's  rind 
Are  soft  as  sails  filled  out  with  wind; 
Her  skin  is  softer  than  the  feel 
Of  corn-floss  that  we  used  to  steal 
To  smoke  in  barns,  (now  I  must  see 
To  touch  her  skin  as  stealthily) 
My  lady's  eyes  are  like  a  cat's 
That  is  compassionate  to  rats ; 
Her  voice  enfolds  the  sweetest  trill 
I've  ever  heard  or  ever  will. 

I  tell  you  that  my  lady  love 
Is  rarer  than  a  purple  dove. 


66 
TWILIGHT  MOOD 

I  THINK  there  is  no  greater  thing 
than  dusk 

That  steals  shamefacedly  around 
the  town, 

And  peeps  between  the  buildings,  look 
ing  down 
Upon  a  world  grown  dim.     It  doesn't 

frown, 
Nor  does  it  gather  grandly  as  would 

musk 

Upon  men's  senses; — just  a  slender  tusk 
Of  color,  curving  silently  between 
The  day  and  night;  a  droop  of  wings 
scarce  seen. 


I  -  67 

I  SPRING  STEPS 

THE  sun  came  up  and  set  the 
street 
A-clatter  with  a  thousand  feet, 
Some  purposeful,  some  hurrying, 
Some  too  judicious,  some  too  fleet, 
Some  eager  what  the  day  would  bring — 
Perhaps  a  birth  or  burying, 
Perhaps  the  first  spring  bird  would  sing 
And  set  good  fellowship  a-swing; 
Perhaps   some   youth   would   lose   his 

dreams, 

Perhaps  some  two  should  never  meet 
To  stage  their  little  act  of  Spring — 
Perhaps  .  .  .  perhaps  .  .  .  and  all  this 

seems 
A-clatter  in  a  thousand  feet. 


68 
RHYTHMS 

UPON  the  pillow  lies  my  head, 
Under   the   blankets   lies   my 
torso; 

The  one  seems  motionless  and  dead, 
The  other  more  so. 

I  do  not  move  my  limbs  nor  flick 
An  eyelash  as  I  wait  for  sleep, 
But  slowly,  subtly,  tick  on  tick, 
The  rhythms  creep. 

The  east  wind  rattles  on  the  panes 
With  an  uneven  sort  of  beat, 
And  I  must  listen  how  it  rains 
With  pattering  feet. 

The  clock  ticks  loudly  in  the  room, 

Incessantly  and  manifest; 

Like  darts  of  sound  shot  through  the 

gloom, 
It  pricks  my  rest. 

My  heart  beats  on  its  ribbed  wall, 
Thump — thump — thump — thump — 
And  does  not  seem  to  cease  at  all 
Its  rhythmic  jump. 


69 

My  breast  heaves  with  my  steady  breath, 
In  and  out,  in  and  out, 
In  goes  life  and  out  comes  death — 
(O  turn  about!) 

Then  I  remember  if  I  prick 
My  heart,  my  breath  will  also  cease, 
My  ears  will  deafen  to  the  tick, 
And  I'll  have  peace. 

But  thinking  of  a  way  to  die, 
I  quite  forgot  that  rhythms  creep 
To  twist  my  rest  and  mind  awry — 
And  fell  asleep ! 


70 
MY  LADY'S  LIPS 

MY  lady's  lips  are  like  a  wander 
ing  bee 

That  does  not  know  where 
next  it  will  alight; 

My  face,  the  flower's  poised  expectancy 
Watching    this    breathless,    undecided 
flight. 

Then  suddenly  your  lips  swoop  from 

their  height, 

To  kiss  me  in  some  unexpected  place, 
Till  languid  thrills,  increasing  in  their 

might 

Tingle  through  my  hot,  bewildered  face. 
Then  like  a  laden  bee  that  drowsily 
Has  had  his  fill  of  nectar  from  the  flower, 
Your  lips  creep  from  my  mouth  reluc 
tantly; — 

Only  to  seek  again  within  the  hour 
This  respite   from  a  passion  that  in 
creased 

So    subtly,    when    the    magic    contact 
ceased. 


PEERS 

PIERROT  and  Pierrette, 
I've  never  heard  your  legend  yet; 
I've  watched  you  dance  at  mas 
querades 

With  less  romantic  men  and  maids ; 
And  your  caprices  on  the  stage, 
Your  heartbreak  on  the  printed  page 
Has  always  been  a  mystery 
With  an  alluring  history 
I've  never  traced  unto  the  end, 
And  never  shall,  for  I  intend 
To  ever  let  myself  coquette 
With  Pierrot  and  Pierrette. 


72 
THE  DEATH  OF  A  MISTRESS 

SLOWLY  she  sips  the  poison  from 
the  cup 
And    flings    it   crashing   to    the 

marble  floor; 

That  is  her  last  insult  to  Fate,  no  more 
These  graceless  outbursts  at  the  sum 
ming  up. 

Then  languidly  she  lies  back  on  the  bed 
And  most  adroitly  bares  her  knee  and 

breast, 

Sets  a  coquettish  angle  to  her  head 
So  those  who  find  her  in  her  final  rest 
Shall  feel  the  lure  of  living  flesh,  the 

breath 

Of  breathless  possibilities — not  death. 
Then  artfully  she  takes  great  pains  to 

close 

Her  lips  like  petals  on  a  drooping  rose. 
She  shuts  her  eyes,  and  curls  her  arms 

about  her — 
So  even  after  death  no  one  may  doubt 

her. 


73 
CLAIR  DE  LUNE 

MALIGNANT   moonlight   flows 
across  the  trees, 
And  burns  a  golden  circle  in 
the  grass — 

While  crouching  back  in  fear  to  let  it 
pass, 

The  shadows  harbor  black  monstrosities. 

The    sky    pants    with    the    stars — hot 
things  to  hold — 

And  broods  his  vengeance  on  the  mother 
moon: 

To  twine  his  clouds  around  her  neck  of 
gold, 

And  fling  her  fainting  in  some  dark  la 
goon, 

Where  taunting  waves  can  scar  her  per 
fect  face, 

Or  to  the  winds,  where  like  a  toy  bal 
loon, 

A  sportive  breeze  can  blow  from  place 
to  place. 

But  no,  she  is  triumphant  in  her  grace, 

And  holds  the  strongest  wind  for  but  a 
tune, 

The  blackest  pool  a  spot  to  flick  her 
lace. 


74 
THE  MAD  BARBER 

WHEN  he  came  home  that  night, 
his  throat  was  choked, 
And  prickly  with  the  bits  of 

inhaled  hair; 

His  hands  though  scrubbed,  would  mer 
cilessly  bear 
Up    visions    of    the    greasy   heads    he 

stroked. 
He  sat  and  thought  of  how  his  patrons 

joked 

Upon  his  silence  and  his  dreamy  stare — 
Coarsely  jibed  his  silence,  he  could  tear 
Their  scalps  apart  for  that !  and  straight 

he  poked 
His  fist  into  the  air,  and  clenched  his 

teeth. 

How  he  hated  all  the  men  he  shaved! 
And  anger  crowned  his  forehead  like  a 

wreath 
That  grew  more  crinkled  as  he  cursed 

and  raved. 
He   thought  an   hour,   then   began   to 

gloat — . 
To-morrow,   he    would   cut   his   boss's 

throat. 


75 
BLACK  SHEEP 

I  AM  the  black  sheep  of  my  family, 
And  why  I  am,  I  never  really 
knew, 
Although  I  half  suspect  at  times,  it's 

true — 

But  still  it  seems  a  bit  of  mystery. 
The  things  that  keep  me  so  are  hard  to 

see; 
Not  concrete  facts   like  one  and   one 

make  two, 
But  subtleties  that  scarcely  came,  but 

grew 

Enough  to  send  me  over  hills  and  sea. 
Of  course  I  am  not  understood,  for  when 
I  try  to  stammer  what  my  reasons  are 
Before  the  questioning  of  sober  men — 
I  am  not  clear,  as  if  my  thoughts  were 

far. 

And  though  at  times  I  cry  before  I  sleep, 
I'm  rather  proud  the  folks  call  me  black 

sheep. 


76 

TO  VIOLE  IN  ANSWER  TO 
HER  SONNET 

DEAREST,  I  wander  long,   and 
you  long  wait, 

Until   my   eyes   are    visioned 
with  the  grace 

That  lies  enchanted  in  a  foreign  place, 
Where  beauty  poses  massively  in  state, 
Where  skies  are  weighed  so  low  with 

golden  freight, 
They  lean  against  the  mountains  for  a 

mace; 
Where  stately  trees  wear  leaves  like 

ruffled  lace, 
And  life's  a  byplay  with  the  sisters  Fate. 

Yet  everywhere  I  drift,  you  keep  a- 

pace — 
Your  face  peers  from  each  lovely  thing 

I  see, 

The  lovelier  the  thing,  the  sweeter  face 
Unfolds  to  lure  me  back  .  .  .  but  it 

may  be 

At  some  too  poignant  beauty  I  shall  start 
For  home,  too  late — and  find  an  empty 

heart. 


77 

"THESE  BE  THE  LOVELY 
THINGS" 

THE    flight    of    formless   beauty 
through  the  grass, 
The  sudden  gleam  of  silver  on 

a  blade, 
The  dancing  golden  motes  that  slowly 

pass 
Deathward — the  final  plunge  into  the 

shade ; 
The  rustling  trees  like  far-off  tinkling 

glass, 
Or  sounding  temple  bells  of  tempered 

brass, 
The  last  gleam  of  the  sun  against  a 

cloud, 
Or  at  the  dawning,  when  it  slips  its 

shroud ; 
The  full-blown  sails  on  swiftly  gliding 

ships, 
With  prows  as  shapely  as  a  woman's 

lips; 

Or  caught  in  stone  through  long,  immo 
bile  years 

The  attitude  of  some  immortal  daugh 
ter — 
A    woman's    body   built    like    curving 

water ; 
These  be  the  lovely  things  that  grace  the 

spheres. 


RONDEAU 

I  WOULD  not  care  about  the  things 
That  life  in  passing  by  us  flings 
In  cynic  mood,   those  bits   that 
make 

Us  scramble  in  their  scattered  wake 

Important  to  our  saunterings 

Throughout  this  world;  and   what  it 

brings 

Is  simple  meat  and  drink.    Where  sings 
The  beauty  of  the  hill  and  lake, 

I  would  not  care. 

I'd  be  content  to  tear  my  wings, 
And  to  soft  music's  echoed  rings 
I'd  dull  my  ears — if  I  could  take 
Your  body  softer  than  a  flake 
Of  snow;  let  after  fall  the  stings, 
I  would  not  care. 


79 
TO  SOPHIE 

THERE  might  not  be   a  single 
thing 

That  comes  up  in  the  life  of 
men, 
Old   truths,    new   depths,    I    wouldn't 

bring 
To  you,  and  muse  them  out  again. 

I  would  be  certain  of  your  thought, 
Unswerving,  clean  and  womanly — 
Save  when  soft,  sudden  hours  wrought 
You  pliant,  and  more  humanly. 

And  then  I  would  be  thrilled  with  you, 
Made  more  elusive  with  your  doubts, 
While  all  the  woman  in  you  knew 
I  loved  your  puckered  brow  and  pouts. 


8o 
MY  LADY  LOVE 

MY  lady  love  is  like  a  rambling 
house 

In   this:    where,    like   black- 
hooded  brooding  mourners, 
Squat  a  scattered  horde  of  nooks  and 

corners ; 

My  hand  steals  like  a  hesitating  mouse 
To  seek  those  cozy  places;  some  are 

warm 

Like  her  pockets,  hair  or  rounded  form, 
Some  are  cool  and  tingling  like  her 

cheeks ; 

In  some,  a  separate,  familiar  odor  reeks, 
Like  her  breath,  perfuming  both  her  lips, 
More  stimulating  than  the  smell  of 

ships ; 

Or  in  her  hair  where  musky  odors  lie, 
Like  the  smouldering  incense  in  those 

tombs 
Where  ancient  queens  were  buried  when 

they  die — 
Keeping    their    romance    young    with 

such  perfumes. 


8i 
I  FEAR 

I  SHALL  come  to  you  in  the  dark 
some  lonely  night, 
And  lie  down  by  your  side  and 

look  toward  where 
Your  head  should  rest  in  the  pillow  of 

your  hair. 
Then  shall  I  know  that  you  are  out  of 

sight, 
And  no  matter  with  what  fear  and  with 

what  might 
I  strain  my  eyes — I  shall  not  see  your 

grace; 
I  shall  not  see,  though  I  shall  know  what 

white 
Petals  your  breasts  are,   above   which 

blooms  your  face 
On  the  lovely  white  stalk  of  your  form ; 

but  though 
Your  untouched  beauty  urges  me   to 

stay, 

I  shall  arise  quite  silently  and  go — 
For  you  in  the  dark  will  be  too  far  away. 
And  I  who  know  you  so  well  in  the  light, 
Shall  be  afraid  to  seek  you  in  the  night. 


82 

TO  MY  LADY 

THERE  is  more  comfort  in  your 
slightest  touch 
Than   in   soft-colored,   placid 

sceneries, 

Or  in  the  gentle  motion  of  the  seas 
Rocking  the  ships  like  cradles  of  tired 

men. 
The  peace  your  cool  skin  brings  to  me 

is  such 
That  robbed  of  you  I  shall  not  feel 

again 
There  is  more  beauty  in  your  curving 

lips 

Than  ever  lingered  in  the  poise  of  ships, 
Than  ever  grew  in  music  or  in  flowers; 
And  I  can  sit  and  watch  your  face  for 

hours, 
Listening  as  you  raise  your  voice  from 

where 

Amid  deep,  soothing  harmonies  it  lies, 
Touching  your  hand  and  playing  with 

your  hair, 
Finding  new  lights  and  colors  in  your 

eyes. 


T 


83 
PEACE 

HERE'S  no  eternal  peace  on  hill, 
There's   no   eternal   peace   at 

sea, 

And  I  shall  seek  for  peace  until 
I  shall  no  longer  be. 

I'll  clamber  up  the  mountainside, 
I'll  turn  my  vision  oceanwise, 

I'll  search  the  country  far  and  wide, 
Until  I  shut  my  eyes. 

I'll  see  the  silent  river  run, 

I'll  watch  the  stately  forests  burn 
Their  twilight  moment  with  the  sun, 

But  I  shall  only  learn 

There's  no  eternal  peace  on  land, 
There's  no  eternal  peace  on  wave, 

The  only  peace  I  could  command 
Is  in  a  narrow  grave. 


EARLY  VERSES 
I 


8? 

REVERIES  OF  A  VIOLEAN 
NIGHT 


HOW  soft  she  is,  so  soft  it  seems 
She  would  be  crushed  against 
my  breast, 

So  standing  by,  I  crave  and  fear, 
And  let  my  eyes  convey  the  rest. 

ii 

O  wind ! 

Shake  not  that  form  which  cowers  from 

you; 

Hold  to  your  trees, 
And  blend  your  reeds  to  kiss  the  river's 

bank. 

But  her — pass  her  by, 
For  I  may  be  tempted 
To  grasp  her  from  you, 
And  let  her  quake  against  me, 
In  my  arms. 


in 


A  sweet,  sweet  face  'mid  a  mass  of  hair 
As  dark  as  a  starless  eve, 
And  the  plead  of  an  eye,  to  stifle  a  sigh 
With  a  kiss  in  tender  retrieve. 


The  plead  of  an  eye,  and  the  world 

seems  fair, 

Though  the  winds  blow  bitter  and  cold, 
And  I  give  the  truth  of  the  love  of  a 

youth, 
When  love  is  all  that  I  hold. 


IV 


O  shapeiess  one, 

Why  do  you  flit  before  my  eyes, 

And  mock  me  with  a  thousand  forms? 

Your   face   which  freezes   then   which 

warms, 

And  takes  an  arch  surprise, 
To  see  me  plunge  bewildered  on 
To  trail  one  fleeting  form  of  thine, 
But  find  mirages,  bright,  divine, 
To  soothe  the  tears  that  realize 
You  are  gone. 


You  try  to  chat  in  care-free  tone, 
Yet  every  jest  conceals  a  moan. 


89 

VI 


I  asked  to  know  you, 

As  well  as  other  knew, 

To  make  your  thoughts  in  jealousy  my 

own. 
Still, 

How  sweet  it  is  to  ask  and  not  to  know, 
To  crave  and  not  to  grasp, 
And  place  you  more  in  mystery 
With  dreams  as  I  would  have  you, 
In  eternal  doubt. 


VII 


I  fold  you  with  my  gaze  and  muse, 
Perhaps  some  night  I'll  hear  you  play, 
And  thrilling  notes  with  banner  hues 
Shall  clothe  me  in  enthralled  array. 

But  shall  that  music  equal  you, 

A  clinging  serenade  of  love 

That  peals  from  out  the  night  and  dew, 

The  wind  and  trees  and  clouds  above? 


90 
FORGET-ME-NOT 

THE  love  that  died  has  never  died 
at  all, 

Forgotten  nights  can  never  be 
forgot, 
While  ivy  leaves  still  cling  upon  the 

wall 

By  which  we  plucked  that  lone  for 
get-me-not. 

The  world  has  given  judgment  past  re 
call, 

"He  has  forgotten  as  we  all  forgot." 
But  still  I  see  an  ivy-softened  wall, 

With  red  lips  on  a  blue  forget-me-not. 


91 
SONNETS  TO  A  YOUNG  LOVE 


NIGHT  after  night,  I've  sat  here 
all  alone, 
Striving  to  form  a  poem  out 

of  you — 
My  thoughts  of  you,   that  gradually 

grew 

As  wildly  lovely  as  an  archbacked  roan, 
Against  the  sky,  nose  quivering,  mane 

wind-blown ; 
But    I    have    never    seen    that    poem 

through, 
Ncr  penned  the  glad-eye  worship  that 

I  knew, 
Which  you  may  have  suspected,  but  not 

known. 

At  times  I  lose  you  totally,  at  times 
I  have  the  insolence  to  grow  annoyed — 
But  when  I  think  you  over  in  the  night, 
And  strive  to  put  my  thoughts  to  lyric 

rhymes, 

Remembered  beauty  leaves  me  over- 
enjoyed — 
And  I  feel  much  too  futile  then  to  write. 


92 

II 


There  is  one  sonnet  that  you'll  never  see, 
Though  countless  pages  in  your  praise  I 

scrawl, 

That  sonnet  is  the  loveliest  of  all, 
So  sweet,  that  it  is  painful  unto  me. 
I  hide  it  from  you  not  through  jealousy, 
(Nothing  is  too  sublime  for  your  pur- 

sual) 

Nor  yet  because  it  shames  me  does  a  wall 
Loom  over  it  in  full  security. 

But  it  may  cause  your  anger  or  your 

smile, 

A  poor  wan  smile  that  pities  me,  a  fool ! 
Or  it  may  cause  you  pain,  or  tears  to 

start 
From  out  your  eyes,  like  white  ducks 

from  a  pool ; 

So  I  keep  it  hidden  for  the  while, 
Written  in  blue  veins  upon  my  heart. 


93 
in 

In  all  my  drifting  through  the  years  to 

come, 

In  all  my  loving  and  my  being  loved, 
Amid  strange  women,  where  my  fancy 

roved 

To  smoke  my  thoughts  with  their  kiss- 
opium — 

One  picture,  like  a  precious  art  of  Rome, 
Carved  in  ivory  in  my  brain  removed, 
Shall  prove  again  as  it  has  often  proved : 
New  loves  are  fickle,  newer  kisses  foam ! 

Though  it  reveal  us  bodily  apart, 
That  picture  is  the  holiest  of  all, 
Where  seated  on  the  hill,  your  bended 

thrall, 
Sun-sprinkled  by  the  shaken  leaves  that 

dart 
Dark  shadows  on  your  hair,  and  while  I 

sprawl 
Beside,  you  read  and  build  a  worded 

wall. 


94 

IV 


Your  face  peers  from  each  lovely  thing 
I  see, 

Plucked  flower,  or  pink-painted  eve 
ning  sky, 

Sun-powdered  pool,  or  rainbowed  but 
terfly, 

Dew-drenched,  and  frightened  from  a 
shaken  tree; 

Or  purple  passages  of  poetry, 

That  lead  to  where  the  hidden  temples 
lie, 

Reveal  the  altars  where  men  weep  and 
die, 

Self-sent  for  women  to  eternity. 

And  then  I  think  how  futile  Nature  is, 
And  Man  in  striving  now  to  reproduce 
The  masterpiece  she  aided  him  to  mold ; 
She,  the  mere  model  who  had  posed  for 

his 
Sculptoring  of  you,   Her   hair  blown 

loose, 
And  wind-poised  while  her  face  was 

beauty-bold. 


95 
v 

Because  you  thrust  my  heart  into  my 

throat 
By  your  unconscious  presence  in  the 

street, 
Whereon  the  gutter  sun  and  shadow 

meet, 
And  float  up  buildings   as  the  hours 

float — 
No  more  my  love  shall  hem  you  like  a 

moat, 
Where  castle-like  you  stand  and  drench 

your  feet, 
Nor  trace  your  moods  with  ever-restless 

heat 
To  learn  your  whims  and  fancyings  by 

rote! 

For  one  day  you  may  draw  a  trifle  near 

To  where  I  am,  and  touch  me  with  your 
hand, 

And  look  at  me  half-boldly  and  half- 
shy — 

And  then  may  happen  what  I  greatly 
fear  : 

My  heart  may  leap  from  me  to  where 
you  stand, 

And  blood  will  clog  my  veins,  and  I  shall 
die. 


96 

VI 


My  loving  is  beyond  you — far  beyond. 
I  did  not  know  that  you  were  but  the 

gate 
To  that  far  land  my  dreams  would  vi- 

sionate, 

Until  one  moment  like  a  silver  wand 
Revealed  you,  and  with  half-closed  eyes 

I  found 
You    in    your    proper    unenglamoured 

state. 
Now   I   must   seek   again   my   endless 

fate — 
New  lips  to  kiss,  new  waists  to  clasp 

around. 

It  seemed  through  all  the  music  that  you 

played, 

You  were  more  holy,  more  to  be  adored, 
Till  suddenly  your  ivory  fingers  strayed, 
And  harmonized  a  wondrous-sounding 

chord, 
Too  vague  to  grasp,  too  deep  for  any 

word, 
But  you  were  lost  amid  what  I  had 

heard. 


Y 


97 

SYLVIA 

OU  came  from  an   unforgotten 

past, 
And  swept  my  thoughts  to  their 

knees 

In  wonder  and  awe. 
You  left  them  gazing  into  the  haze-grey 

river  of  memory, 
And  plumbing  deeper. 
You  sent  your  radiant  coolness  through 

my  body 
And  made  me  shudder,  and  shake  off  my 

nonchalance ; 

You  shimmering,  silver-surfaced  sylph, 
Reflecting  heat  of  other  things, 
I  wonder  if  your  cold,  white  depths 
Conceal  a  scarlet  spark. 
O  sylvan  nymph,  in  your  hair 
Cool  forest  glens,  cool  autumn  leaves 
Echo  back  their  rustlings; 
In    your    grey-green    eyes,    forgotten 

oceans  roll, 

And  sweep  upon  the  person  you  regard 
Old  oriental  wreckage,  musky-scented, 
Curious  carvings,  queer  receptacles, 
That  bring  back  the  glamour  of  ancient 

centuries, 

Yet  ice-bergs  seem  to  hover  in  the  dis 
tance — 
Odd  guardians  of  your  warmth ! 


98 
AGE 

THERE  are  old  things  that  we 
have  done, 

Which  come  back  in  peculiar 
ways — 

When  the  horizon  cuts  the  sun, 
Or  even  at  the  break  of  days; 

Sometimes  when  we  lie  sleepless  in 
Our  beds,  and  stare  up  at  the  wall, 
Tracing  some  long-forgotten  sin 
That's  unf orgotten  after  all ; 

Or  when  we  look  up  from  a  book, 
Whose  words  pricked  some  long-hidden 

act 

Of  old,  full-measured  days  that  took 
Their  span  of  years  adventure-racked. 

It's  then  we  have  a  feeling  that 
We're  growing  old,  and  somewhat  bare, 
That  later  years  have  grown  too  fat, 
And  taken  on  too  much  of  care ; 

Contented  to  sit  idly  by 
And  think  of  things  that  we  have  done- 
Gathering  our  younger  years  more  nigh 
Unto  us,  like  a  restless  son. 


I 

99 
PROTEST 

WHY  do  people  hide  their  hands 
On  such  a  mellow  day? 
In  pockets,  gloves  or  under 
capes, 

Or  make  them  a  display 
Of  purses,  canes  or  circling  gems? 

Must  fingers  always  be, 
If  not  imprisoned,  burdened  slaves 
Of  people's  vanity? 


10O 

SPRING  LUXURY 

THE  day  is  too  languid  and  lux 
urious, 
And,  I  like  a  weary  monarch 

scowl 

At  the  trees  that  bend  down  to  me, 
And  the  bird-flutes  that  play  for  me, 
And  the  ceaseless  rustling  censer  going 

before  me, 

Strewing  spring-scent  in  my  path, 
And  seeming  to  say:    "Bow  down  to 

him,  he  is  king." 
Forever  does  my  treasure  keeper 
Count  his  gold  before  my  eyes 
And  pour  the  splendor  out  before  me, 
And  blind  me. 

And  I  am  weary  of  the  brook, 
That,  like  a  sultan's  favorite 
Flashes  her  silver-silken  robes, 
And  tinkles  laughter  at  each  pebble- jest, 
He  throws  at  her, 
So  she  may  beg  gold  pieces  from  his 

treasure  hold 

And  wear  them  near  her  heart, 
While  her  white  teeth  gleam  wantonly. 


EARLY  VERSES 

.-'.'.V'r.J| ..:;::'., ;;,.;., 
PERVERSITIES 


103 
SNEERS 

I   TELL  you, 
The  World  is  made  of  dust. 
Even  blood  dries  into  dust, 
And  the  ocean  to  salt, 
While  the  night  shrivels  to  dust  before 
the  dawn. 

Men  are  so  much  like  lice. 

They  creep  over  the  face  of  the  earth 

And  through  her  hair, 

And  even  burrow  underground; 

Then  wonder  at  earthquakes. 


104 
LUNI-COMIC 

THE  sky  is  lousy  with  stars  to 
night, 

The  moon  is  a  running  sore 
On  the  body  of  heaven,  that  gleams  as 

white 

As  the  face  of  a  cowardly  cloud  in  flight 
At  the  wind's  remotest  roar. 

The  damned  trees'  branches  are  palsied 

bones 

In  a  weird,  spasmodic  dance, 
Which  jumble  and  hiss  in  the  fiercest  of 

tones, 
That  even  the  moss  bristles  up  on  the 

stones, 
While  the  ghosts  of  dawn  advance. 


105 
PLAY-THOUGHTS 


I  AM  confusion — 
Oh,  not  the  confusion  of  ordi 
nary  things — 
But  stay, 

Are  things  ordinary  ? 
I  am  so  great  a  confusion  that  I  doubt 

even  my  saying. 
I  am  the  enormous  confusion, 
The  great  chaotic  confusion  of  life — 
So  immense  a  confusion,  that  I  doubt 

myself, 
And  my  confusing. 


io6 
ii 

And  I  am  the  question — 

The  huge,  eternal,  infinite  question. 

I  call  life  a  fact — and  then  question: 

Why  is  life  a  fact  when  the  very  fun 
damentals 

And  future  of  it  are  unknown? 

Then  I  say :  life  is  a  dream — 

But  if  so,  who  dreams  the  dream  of  life? 

And  so  I  answer  life  is  darkness, 

Stretching,  black-born  darkness, 

And  the  thoughts  and  dreams  of  life 

Are  but  the  stars,  the  little  lamps  that 
shine 

In  the  darkness, 

And  only  accentuate  it, 

For  do  the  stars  light  up  the  sky? 

Oh,  I  am  the  question! 

And  I  question  men  who  question  me, 

And  I  even  question  my  own  question 
ing, 

And  ponder  at  my  infinitude. 


107 
in 

But  I  am  life — 

I  question  the  confusion  of  myself, 

And  confuse  the  questioning. 

I  am  the  liquid  elusive, 

For  I  take  the  form  of  my  container, 

And  fit  into  each  mold  of  thought  men 
make  for  me, 

Imperfect  molds — 

That  allow  me  to  drip, 

Until  I  form  pools  of  protest  and  con 
troversy. 

I  am  the  paradox, 

And  I  am  the  axiom, 

And  I  am  neither. 


io8 

AN  ATTEMPT  AT   THE   MASE- 
FIELDIAN  MANNER 

WHEN  I  met  her,  I  wasn't  sure 
Whether   or   not  she   was   a 

whore. 

Her  lips  looked  like  an  open  wound, 
As  livid,  and  as  ugly-red, 
The  only  live  thing  in  her  head, 
But  badly  done  and  out-of-tuned. 
The  only  other  striking  thing 
Was  just  the  shortness  of  her  skirt. 
She  looked  as  though  she  had  been  hurt 
By  destiny;  her  face  was  girt 
By  ancient  sadness,  and  the  science 
Of  ever  harboring  defiance. 

Her  eyes  were  dead,  no  luster  there, 

Just  ashes,  cold  and  feathery, 

The  pencil  on  her  lashes  looked 

Inartful  and  unweathery, 

And  dull  as  if  she  didn't  care. 

I  watched  a  while  and  then  decided 

That  as  yet  she  wasn't  booked 

For  that  night,  so  I  confided 

That  I  should  like  to  know  her  'cause 

I'd  show  her  what  a  good  time  was. 

And  never  while  I  pace  this  earth, 
Shall  I  forget  the  hate  that  blazed 


Into  her  face;  she  looked  half-crazed; 
And  with  those  lips  she  uttered  birth 
To  a  hysteric-frozen  mirth.  .  .  . 
And  when  that  awful  laugh  was  done, 
Her  voice  talked  in  a  bleeding  tone. 

' 'Excuse  me  for  my  laugh,  you're  not 
To  blame,  you're  not  the  cause  of  that. 
'Twas  that  my  thoughts  were  far  away, 
Thinking  of  another  day, 
When  I  was  young,  and  didn't  think 
I'd  sell  myself  to  every  wink; 
When  innocently  I'd  no  thought 
I'd  ever  be  so  lightly  bought; 
Of  when  I  loved  young  Driver  Jack 
Who  always  drove  me  in  his  hack 
When  he'd  no  trade,  and  how  alone 
He'd  kiss  my  flesh  hot  to  the  bone; 
And  how  with  kisses,  vows  and  all 
Was  soon  accomplishing  my  fall ; 
How  I  left  home  with  bastard  in  me 
With  all  the  parish  hot  agin  me. 
He  died  in  gaol  where  I  was  sent 
When  I,  on  getting  food  was  bent 
And  stole  a  bun  from  a  baker's  shop, 
Stale,  and  only  fit  for  slop, 
But  still  enough  to  kill  a  life, 
And  make  me  every  bounder's  wife. 

"I  thought  of  all  the  fields  in  May, 
The  scent  and  sun  that  filled  the  day 


no 

With  peace  and  loveliness  and  light 
That  furled  supremely  into  night. 
Then  the  lone  cabin  by  the  well 
Where  nightly,  witches  rose  from  hell, 
And  burned  a  circle  in  the  grass, 
Dancing  in  a  frantic  mass, 
Riding  broomsticks,  breathing  fire, 
Having  feasts  in  peat  and  mire, 
Shrieking  curses  that  so  dire, 
Scorched  the  fields  around  for  miles, 
And   burned   down    fences,   pens   and 

stiles. 

And  how  we  children  watched  the  harm 
That  had  been  done  with  great  alarm. 
(It's  true  some  called  it  fault  of  gypsies, 
But  those  were  looked  upon  as  tipsies, 
For  didn't  John  McGully  tell  Wards 
He  had  seen  them  flying  hell  wards?) 

"I  thought  of  me  so  cute  a  child, 
So  sweet,  so  gay,  so  pure,  so  mild, 
The  teacher'd  kiss  me  on  the  cheek, 
And  how  with  rum  his  breath  would 

reek; 

'Twas  wondrous  grand  I  did  allow 
(Those  kisses  sell  for  tuppence  now, 
And  now  it's  mixing  rum  and  rum, 
My  breath  with  some  unlearned  bum) 
I  thought  of  all  those  olden  days, 
The  childhood  days,  the  golden  days, 


Ill 

And  for  a  while  forgot  that  I 

Was  waiting  an  inviting  eye; 

With  dreams  so  sweet,  I  thought  no  more 

That  I  was  standing  here  a  whore. 

When  you  accosted  me  it  seems, 

You  shook  me  rudely  from  my  dreams, 

And  for  the  moment  I  had  felt 

As  if  an  insult  had  been  dealt. 

Thus  is  my  tale,  if  you'll  forgive, 

I'll  go  with  you  for  beer,  and  live 

The  night  with  you,  if  you'll  agree." 

She  got  more  money  out  of  me 
Than  I'd  have  given  any  dame, 
Just  for  a  tale  that  sounded  lame. 


112 

LOSS 

YESTERDAY     the     world     was 
fairly  bright, 

And  somewhat  crisp  and  biting 
to  the  touch ; 

To-night  the  world  is  just  as  any  night, 
And  any  night  does  not  amount  to  much. 

But  that  is  not  what  hurts.    It  is  the  fact 
That  brisker  days  put  brisker  blood  in 

me, 
And  brisker  blood  is  what  I've  always 

lacked, 
And  what  we  lack,  we  gather  painfully. 


SOMEONE 

HE  knew  that  he  was  doomed,  and 
so  he  coursed 
Through  life  a  trifle  loosely, 
and  too  gay; 
But  yet  his  laughter  sounded  somewhat 

forced, 
And  he  grew  sad  too  often  in  his  play. 

When  those  who  watched  him  through 

the  changing  day, 
Once  asked  why  he  should  throw  his  life 

to  bad, 
He  smiled  and  said,  "How  can  I  throw 

away 
What  you  have  lost,  and  I  have  never 

had?" 


QUERY 

I    WONDER  why 
We  take  the  flower  she  has  given 

us, 

Whether  it  be  forget-me-not, 
Or  rose,  which  it  usually  is, 
And  crush  its  petals  in  a  book, 
The  more  ponderous  the  better, 
And  bleed  the  flower  on  its  pages, 
So  in  later  years, 
We  may  sniff  the  crumbled  petals  up 

our  nostrils, 

And  murmur,  "What  sweet  memories," 
As  we  sneeze. 


WISE 

HE  does  not  know,  and  therefore 
writes 
The  detailed  ecstasy  of  love, 
Of  passion-kisses,  perfumed  nights, 
Of  Cupid  and  the  dove. 

But  I  who  felt  the  common  kiss 

Where  common-scented  flowers  grow, 

On  such  a  common  night  as  this, 
I  cannot  write — I  know. 


